


In His Dreams

by 14hpgirl19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Not a Happy Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 20:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6129886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14hpgirl19/pseuds/14hpgirl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It felt so <em>real</em>. It always does. So real that waking up feels like a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. He can’t quite decide."</p>
<p>In which Sherlock dreams about John, and then makes some poor decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> For Marissa.
> 
> I wrote this for the sole purpose of hurting my friends, and they convinced me to post it. So here it is! I'm really, really sorry.

_This is it._

_This is the day he’s been waiting for._

_Nothing can ruin it._

_He smooths down the front of his tuxedo, his nerves nearly eating him alive. It’s silly of him to be nervous, but he is, because this is such a momentous day, and it needs to go perfectly._

_It needs to go perfectly for_ him.

_Because after everything he_ _has gone through, he deserves this day._

_Sherlock can’t stop fidgeting, why can’t he stop fidgeting? Fidgeting is for the weak, and Sherlock Holmes is not a weak man._

_But then again, if there was ever a person to make him one, it’s John Watson._

_John, who came into Sherlock’s life so suddenly and so brilliantly._

_John, who has saved Sherlock so many times._

_John, who Sherlock loves more than anyone in the world._

Him. _It’s always been him._

_Sherlock thinks his palms are sweating, but it doesn’t matter because John is right in front of him, dopey smile in place, tux perfectly pressed. He seems to understand everything Sherlock is thinking and feeling, because he soothes all of Sherlock’s fears with a squeeze of the hands and a “Here we go, love.”_

_Normally Sherlock would loathe this display of emotion and sentiment, but it’s the tingling feeling in his stomach and near constant warmth all over his body that makes him decide it’s okay today. It’s the feeling of John’s hands in his, and the sight of John looking at him like he’s the only person in the world._

_Before, the work was all that mattered. The thing he was married to._

_But now, John is all that matters._

_And John is the person he’s married to._

~~~~~~

John’s face leaning closer to his is the last thing Sherlock sees when the dream fades and the real world comes back to greet him. He’s fallen asleep on the couch again, too tired to make it to his room, and his hand is dangling off the side. He feels sore, and he curses himself for letting it happen. It will make working harder later today.

As he blinks slowly, 221B comes into sharper focus. The cluttered table, the skull on the mantelpiece. His armchair, looking quite lonely without its partner across from it.

Sherlock’s dream resurfaces, and his throat feels too tight. He falls back against the couch pillow and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

It felt so _real._ It always does. So real that waking up feels like a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. He can’t quite decide.

It’s never been their wedding before. That’s a new one. Most of the time it’s their first date, or first kiss. Once before he’s seen John proposing, but they’ve never gotten further than that. Sherlock supposes it’s a good thing it hasn’t happened before, because he doesn’t know if he could handle the sadness he’s feeling now if it was a recurring thing.

He tries (unsuccessfully) to put it from his mind as he gets ready for the day. If it were anything else, he is certain he wouldn’t have any difficulties doing so. But all he can think about when he gets dressed is how John looked in his tux. When he eats a paltry breakfast, he wonders what they would’ve served at their reception. Would they have had a reception? It doesn’t matter, because it isn’t real.

_It’s not real,_ he repeats over and over. He even begins to whisper it aloud. He knows, oh how he _knows_ it’s not, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish it was.

Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. It’s something he’s said many times, something he’s believed for most of his life. He’s not sure if he still feels this way, but he knows that if he does, there’s only one thing that is certain:

He’s been on the losing side for a long time.

~~~~~~

John Watson is an anomaly. He’s a person who looks utterly ordinary on the outside, but is the most fascinating person Sherlock has ever met. Sherlock thinks he could spend hundreds of years studying John and would still be confused about who he is. And while that’s an odd sensation for Sherlock, he knows why he feels this way.

He’s hopelessly in love with John.

It’s never happened before. Sherlock has never thought he would ever feel this passionately about another human being, yet here he is, finding himself choked up with emotion just at the sight of John’s smile.

They’re working a case together, and if Sherlock concentrates he can almost pretend it’s like the old days. Days where they ran around London until their legs screeched with pain, where they felt like it was them against the rest of the world. Days that would end with both of them going back to Baker Street.

But today there is a gold band on John’s finger that reminds Sherlock it’s not like those days.

He often wonders what would’ve happened if he’d just opened his mouth one of those nights and said, “John, I love you.” If he’d laid himself bare for John and showed him just how much he meant to Sherlock. Would John accept it and tell Sherlock he felt the same way? Or would he have moved out the next day?

In a way, Sherlock is glad he never told John, because if his response had been the latter, Sherlock would’ve been lost. Lost without his blogger, his heart.

So really, it was better to keep it to himself, because at least now John is still by his side, still smiling in his direction, still brushing against him every once in a while. That’s all that matters really. Having John there.

After being alone for so long, Sherlock never thought he could miss a person so much. But he does. He misses John with every fiber of his being. He hates living in 221B without John. The flat feels too big without him sitting in his chair, too quiet without him yelling at Sherlock for leaving fingers in the cabinet. If he could be granted one wish, he would ask for John to come back to live with him. He could take hiding his true feelings as long as John came home to him every night.

He decides to invite John over after the case. It’s been too long since the good doctor had stopped by, and Sherlock is afraid he’ll forget what the flat looks like without John. Of course he knows he won’t, but it doesn’t stop him from being scared.

So he’ll invite John over for a cuppa. It’ll be nice, having him there.

~~~~~~

Except they don’t make it back to Baker Street.

The case takes a turn, and they find themselves on the wrong end of a gun. Sherlock could run through all the explanations in his head to pinpoint exactly where he went wrong, but he doesn’t because all he can think is _the gun is pointing at John._

There’s only one thing to do. He doesn’t think. He just moves.

When the gun goes off, the _bang_ echoes through the streets, and the smoke clears, there’s only one person on the ground. It’s not John.

Sherlock can faintly hear the shooter running away, but he doesn’t care. John is safe and fine, and that’s all that matters.

“Why did you do that?” John demands, his voice cracking slightly. He’s pressing his hands to Sherlock’s stomach, trying in vain to stop the blood from flowing out. Sherlock wants to tell him to stop. John’s had too much blood on his hands, he doesn’t need that of his best friend. Again.

“Do what?” Speaking is hard, should it be this hard so soon after getting shot? He’s been shot before, so he should know, but he can’t make the answer come.

“Get yourself shot,” John gets out. He presses harder, and Sherlock grunts in pain, but John pays no mind.

It’s the second time Sherlock has been shot, and he decides he doesn’t really like the sensation. Not that it matters, he doubts he’ll experience it again.

“Couldn’t let you… get hurt,” Sherlock mumbles. John stills for a moment before increasing the pressure on Sherlock’s wound.

“We need to call an ambulance,” John says. He fumbles around in his pocket in search of his mobile while keeping one hand on Sherlock. Sherlock lets out a weak laugh.

“Both of our phones are dead.”

John exhales harshly, shaking his head. “No. No, this can’t happen.” He looks at Sherlock, and in the dying light of the day he can see tears in John’s eyes.

_Don’t cry, John,_ he thinks. He can’t bear to see John cry.

Feebly, Sherlock places his hand over John’s. “It’s okay, John.” He manages a smile. “After all I’ve done to avoid death… maybe it’s time I accept it.”

“No,” John insists. “No, Sherlock, you can’t. You have to fight, okay? Fight for me.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, savoring John’s words. “It’s always been… for you. Everything I’ve done.”

“So do this now!” John taps Sherlock’s face. “Keep your eyes open, okay? Keep them open, love.”

Sherlock obeys, because when has he ever not done what John asks him to? “Love…” he says, the word slurring slightly.

“Yeah?”

The edges of Sherlock’s vision are starting to blacken. Breathing is harder, but the wound hurts less now. Little time left.

“That’s what I feel…” Sherlock says. “For you.”

John stares at him, and Sherlock forces himself to keep his eyes open because he wants John to be the last thing he sees.

“You arsehole,” John whispers. “You tell me this now? After all the years I’ve spent wondering, you choose now?”

John’s crying, Sherlock realizes. No. He’s not supposed to cry. He’s not supposed to be hurt.

“Couldn’t… couldn’t risk you not feeling… the same way.”

John grasps Sherlock’s hand, both smeared with blood. “Of course I do. I’ve felt that way since the moment I met you, you madman.”

“Huh. That’s… that’s good to know. Shame we’ve wasted… all this time.”

Far away, sirens can be heard. Someone nearby must’ve called it in. It’s too late now. Sherlock’s breathing is slowing, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

“John…” he says. He puts all his strength into squeezing John’s hand. John clutches back and shushes him.

“Don’t try to speak,” John orders. “Just focus on staying alive.”

“I don’t… don’t think I can.”

“Sherlock, please.” John’s voice is desperate. “Don’t do this.”

“Knowing you,” Sherlock says, “has been the greatest part of my life. _You_ have been the greatest part.”

The sirens are closer now, but so is Sherlock. He’s so close. John is crying harder now. It pains Sherlock more than the bullet in his abdomen.

“Please don’t leave me,” John whispers. “I love you, you hear me? I love you, so you can’t do this.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He can’t respond. Not anymore.

~~~~~~

Just that morning, Sherlock Holmes had woken up from a dream where he was married to John Watson.

Little did he know, John had woken up from the same dream.


End file.
